The Demon Drivers BOOK IV - Ch. 6: Anatomy of a Flight Leader
The Demon Drivers BOOK IV
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Parker, Sunny, Bubba and Igby returned to the Barracks and proceeded to the Mess Hall. They were about to enter via one of the many doors when Bubba halted abruptly. Parker, Sunny and Igby stumbled into him.
“What gives?” began Parker.
Bubba held up his hands, cutting off Parker’s protest. Bubba placed his index finger to his lips. He cupped one hand to his ear and pointed to the door through which they were about to enter the Mess Hall.
From the other side of the door came a voice. It seemed to be repeating the same thing every few seconds.
Bubba carefully pushed open the door and peeked in. He looked inside for a moment, and then gently closed the door. He looked back at them, doing his best not to burst out laughing, then shuffled out of the way and let the others approach the door. Parker pushed it open a bit and peeked inside, along with Sunny and Igby.
Sitting at a table near the kitchen was Colby. On the table in front of him sat an open textbook. Next to this sat a small carton of milk and a large box of Astr-O’s cereal. The front of the box bore the perfect holographic likeness of Colby holding aloft the usual white bowl containing the mound of delicious-looking cereal, identical to the box Parker had at home.
“Take it to the max!” declared the holographic Colby. He lifted the spoon in triumph. Then the image froze and reset itself. The real, living Colby also held a bowl full of cereal and a silver spoon. He watched and waited, studying the cereal box. “Take it to the max!” he said, repeating the phrase in turn. Each time Colby spoke, he varied his tone and inflection, putting the emphasis on different words as he punched the air with the spoon, all while holding up the bowl. “Take it to the max! Take it to the max! Take it to the max! Take it to the max!”
“He really is practicing,” murmured Sunny.
“See?” Igby said softly. “Told you.”
“Watch this.” Bubba slapped the metal bar on the door and flung it open, striding briskly into the Mess Hall. “Gotcha!”
Colby was startled badly and cereal sloshed out of the bowl and onto his arm. Black, grey, and green frosted O’s rolled down his sleeve, into his lap and onto the floor, where they formed a sugary puddle. The spoon slipped from his grip. It hit the floor and clattered and clanged.
“Gotcha,” repeated Bubba, laughing as he approached Colby. “Caught in the act.”
“Take it to the max!” said the cereal box.
Colby set down the bowl and began patiently sponging sugary milk from himself with a napkin.
Parker, Sunny and Igby filed in. They sat down at the table. Bubba went into the kitchen.
“Take it to the max!” the box said again.
“The whole of my empire for a pinch of privacy,” said Colby.
“Shakespeare?” asked Sunny as she took her seat.
“Take it to the max!” repeated the box.
“Shut that thing up!” called Bubba from the kitchen.
Colby gave the box a short shake and set it on the floor next to him. He looked at Sunny and muttered, “Garivaldi, actually.”
“I’ve never heard of him. Who is he?”
Colby studied Sunny, evidently gauging the sincerity of her interest. At last he said, “Onus Garivaldi was a little-known Greek philosopher and dramaticist. My favorite play is one he wrote called This Marble Sundown.”
“What’s it about?” asked Sunny.
Colby surveyed Sunny for another moment and said, “It’s about a young emperor who is searching for a quiet place to compose a poem he is planning to recite to the woman he loves, with the hope of winning her heart. People keep bothering him so he retreats to the ocean. But before he can finish the poem, they follow him there and crowd around him, forcing him into the sea, where he drowns. He only writes the first few lines.” Colby looked down for several moments. He looked up. His face appeared different, sad. Softly he said, “‘This marble sundown I see. . . . Sunlight-soft petals. . . . Falling for thee. . . . The whole of my empire. . . . for a pinch. . . . of privacy.’”
“That’s beautiful,” said Sunny.
Igby clapped his hands quietly.
Parker wanted to scream.
In the kitchen, Bubba continued looking in cupboards and drawers, causing a great ruckus. He returned with an enormous silver mixing bowl and a large tablespoon. He grabbed the cereal box off the floor and upended it, dumping its entire contents into his silver bowl. Colby stared at him in awe.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Bubba, noticing Colby’s gaze, “I thought you were done. I don’t want to take the whole box if you want to practice, I mean eat some more.”
“No, I’m done. Besides, there’s another box in the pantry.”
“Great. Thanks.” Bubba grabbed the milk carton and poured. A white river of milk glugged out of it, drowning the little green and silver and black O’s. He stirred the cereal briskly and sat down on the table, his black boots clomping on the chair. “So, Colby,” Bubba crunched a mouthful of cereal, “if this guy is an emperor, why does he have to win the heart of his lady-fair with a poem? He’s the emperor. He can have any woman he wants, right?”
“Probably,” said Colby. “But in the first act he says he wants to marry ‘not for land or title, nor for harmony of peoples, but for love. And only for love.’”
“Awe. . . .” Sunny clasped her hands over her heart.
“Why didn’t he just lock himself in his room?” Bubba asked. “He didn’t have to let people push him into the ocean. Besides, why did he go to the ocean if he couldn’t swim?”
“How do you know he couldn’t swim?” asked Igby.
“If he knew how to swim, he wouldn’t have drowned.”
“Maybe the waves were really big,” offered Igby. “Maybe the undertow got him. Or maybe he got hypothermia.”
“What’s that?” asked Bubba.
“It means he got really cold,” replied Sunny.
“It’s a tragedy,” said Colby, cutting them off. He sounded more than a bit testy. “Medea could have grabbed her kids and hit the road. Romeo and Juliette probably could have just grabbed a couple horses and a sack of gold and hit the road, too. They could have lived happily ever after. But they didn’t. Medea set her own children on fire rather than give them up. Romeo and Juliette each drank poison, preferring death over being apart. Tragedy is heart-breaking and often horrific. That’s what makes it so beautiful.”
Sunny let out a squeal of delight.
Tell that to Lonnie and his mom and dad, thought Parker.
“How do you know all this?” Bubba asked between bites.
“This is what I do,” said Colby. “I know drama.”
“That’s for sure. I think it’s ridiculous.” Bubba crunched more cereal.
“I think it’s beautiful,” said Sunny. Colby gallantly inclined his head toward her. “May I read the play?” she asked.
“It’s written in Greek and it has yet to be translated,” Colby replied.
“If it’s in Greek then how did you read it?” Bubba asked.
“Because Colby is fluent in Greek,” said Igby. “It’s pretty cool, actually.”
“Did you learn it at that weird acting school of yours in New York?” asked Bubba. “From that soup guy . . . Lipton something or other. . . .”
“Actually, I taught myself. It wasn’t that difficult. Einstein said you can master any subject by spending one hour per day practicing. I had books and audio recordings to listen to, the same program used by government spies.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” said Igby, “it’s plenty difficult. I speak four languages but Greek isn’t one of them.”
“What good is it to speak a language no one else speaks?” asked Bubba. “So you can sit around talking to yourself?”
“Take it to the max!” declared the cereal box. Bubba gave it a swift tap with his spoon.
“Some things defy logic,” said Colby. “Like how you can eat an entire trough of cereal.”
Before Bubba could fire back, Sunny said, “Or like matters of the human heart. Maybe you could read the play to me sometime, Colby.”
Parker wanted to scream. Again.
“I’d be delighted,” said Colby.
“Who is Onus Garivaldi?” Sunny asked. “I took Classics I and II at my old school but I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s because he’s me,” said Colby. “It’s my nom de plum, my pseudonym, my alter ego.”
“You wrote it?” asked Sunny.
Colby nodded. “I’m going to start writing for Go-Boy. My play is going to show everyone I can do it. I feel the story in Go-Boy . . . Unleashed is a bit lacking. The way I see it, story reigns supreme. If everything you do is guided by the desire to always, always, always be true to the story, you will have a critically-acclaimed blockbuster on your hands. I’m giving up my Executive Producer’s credit and the exorbitant salary I was going to get. In exchange I’m being paid as a writer, earning much, much less. It seems strange now that I’m on the other side of the creative process. It’s my idea and my story but I get paid next to nothing? C’est fou. It’s crazy. But then I am fronting money of my own toward financing the picture, thus making me by definition an Executive Producer. This entitles me to the legal right to be involved in the shooting and shaping of the film, to make sure I’m excited by all the wild stuff we come up with together. That way the film can be about more than selling Longneck Lagers and Astr-O’s. It can have a message. Maybe even something profound like ‘Make Love, Not War.’ That’s a phrase they used a long time ago. I don’t know why it’s so hard for everyone to stop fighting. And when I say ‘everyone’ I mean everyone on the planet.”
Sunny looked like she was about to explode. “So not only are you a brilliant writer, you’re a trail-blazing humanitarian.”
Parker suddenly didn’t feel as bad about Bubba startling Colby. In fact, he wanted to dump Bubba’s cereal over Colby’s head.
“I’m off to bed,” said Igby, getting up from the table.
“Already?” said Bubba, looking up from his bowl of cereal. “I was hoping we could hit the rec room for some air hockey, Ig.”
“I have to get up early.”
“So do we.”
“I have to get up extra early to make sure the techs have my Battle-suit fixed. Plus I have to make sure I’m prepared to teach ground school in the morning. We’ll review basic Battle-suit anatomy and mechanics, followed by landings. See you in the conference room at eight a.m. sharp.”
At this, Parker was thankful Igby did not look directly at him.
Igby headed for the long row of doors. He looked back and said, “Parker, I put your books in your quarters. Each of you should take a few minutes to familiarize yourselves with chapter one of The Battle-suit Operator’s Handbook. Oh, and learn the phonetic alphabet, too. I recommend copying it until you can do it from memory. That usually works for me. Goodnight.” With that, Igby slipped from the Mess Hall.
“Battle-suit anatomy and mechanics, alphabet memorization, and landings?” goffed Sunny. “I’m going to bed, too. I’m not even done with the chapter on landings.” She hurried from the room. She could still be heard going on about landings and alphabets and energy drinks as she proceeded down the hallway.
Bubba winked and slid off the long table. He headed for the doors, carrying his mixing bowl of cereal.
“General Ramsey said no chow in the Barracks,” called Parker.
At the door, Bubba turned back and said, “What General Ramsey doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” He grinned mischievously and spooned more milky cereal into his mouth, then disappeared through the door, leaving Parker and Colby alone.
Parker wondered how long he had to sit there before he could leave without making obvious his desire not to be alone with Colby. Just two days ago, he’d have done almost anything to have a private conversation with Colby Max. But now that he knew Colby, he felt differently. He didn’t understand why, but it just wasn’t as he’d always expected it would be. He thought again about leaving.
Colby casually turned a few pages of his textbook. “So. Here we are.”
Parker didn’t know what to say, and remained silent.
“You can leave, too, if you want,” said Colby. “You won’t hurt my feelings.”
“I can cool my plasma for awhile,” Parker lied, not knowing why he didn’t accept Colby’s offer.
Colby looked across the table at him and said, “Looks like it’s your move, ace.”
“My move?”
“You’re Flight Leader now. Soon, you’ll be thrust into the limelight in a way you never could have imagined.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t honestly think something like this is going to be kept a secret, do you? It’s just a matter of time before some junior-grade techno-putz snitches on us to his wife while he’s enjoying his leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Or some nosey tabloid reporter uses a telephoto lens longer than my coq-au-vin to snap a few shots of us doing our thing out here in the desert.”
“Cocoa-what?”
“Coq-au-vin. It’s French, chicken in wine sauce. It’s pronounced coke-o-van, but don’t pronounce the ‘n’ at the end. As I was saying, you saw all those people watching us this afternoon. If one of them doesn’t fink on us, I’ll kiss your plasma. Believe me, word will get out. When it does, The Go-Kids will be a household name. Every corporation in America will pay top dollar to put our shining faces on their product. Who do you think will pony up the most dough for the rights to market us? McCrappy’s or Musical Burrito?” Colby affected a dramatic announcer’s voice, “Come to McCrappy’s and get a Go-Kids Meal! Six posable action figures to choose from! Collect them all! For a limited time.” Colby grinned. “Right now my fast food endorsement is with Wiener Steamers, but that contract is up for renewal. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but personally, I’ve always preferred HulkaBurger. There’s just something wholesome about having your cheeseburger and French fries served to you in a cardboard box. Did you know that in France, French fries aren’t called French fries?”
“What are they called?”
“‘Royale with Cheese.’ ‘Bring out the Gimp.’ ‘I think the Gimp’s sleeping.’ ‘You’ll just have to wake him up, now won’t you?’ ‘Zed’s dead, baby. Zed’s dead.’ ‘Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs.’” Colby shook his head and blinked his eyes a few times. “Sorry. Actually they call them fried potatoes. Weird, huh?”
“Very.” Parker had a sudden vision of Sunny and Colby feeding each other fried potatoes and a Double HulkaBurger from a little white cardboard box while Colby read to her. It was maddening. And who was Zed and why was he dead? Parker forced himself to think about something else and found himself saying, “So how are you going to feel about being forced to share the fame?”
“I feel just fine, thank you. I am well aware of my celebrity and my ego is intact. The question is how are you going to feel? As Flight Leader, you’re the front man for the five of us. Everyone is going to know who you are. And they’re all going to want a piece of you.”
Parker stared at Colby. Could he be right? Could word actually get out? “General Ramsey said this entire operation is above Top Secret. It’s a matter of national security.”
Colby slowly flipped through his textbook. He scarcely glanced at the pages. “That’s true. But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong, that what I said isn’t going to happen. When it does, you’d better be ready.”
Colby turned a few more pages.
Parker wondered if Colby was enjoying this, enjoying watching him squirm.
“Now, if you want,” said Colby, pausing again, clearly for dramatic effect, “I could help you. Being a celebrity myself, I know what it’s like to be under the watchful eye of the viewing public. You see, Parker, you and I are a lot alike.”
Colby paused again.
Parker needed a moment to think; this was the second time that day that someone had compared him to Colby.
“We’re nothing like most of the young stars and starlets working today,” Colby continued. “Most of them are like hyperactive puppies. And they never shut up. Every moment of their waking consciousness is devoted to getting the next cereal commercial or being cast as the sad sack in the next daddy-come-home film, no offense. Frankly, they really get on your nerves.”
Parker wondered if everyone thought of him as the sad sack. Before he could consider it further, Colby went on.
“That’s why Igby and I get along so well. Except for being a boy-genius with triple doctorate degrees and the owner of more patents than most corporations, he’s a normal person, thrust into the spotlight like me. And, now, like you.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting when it comes to matters of fame and publicity, you let me handle things. Don’t worry, I won’t steer you wrong. I have my own career to think about, too.”
Parker didn’t like the sound of this. “What kind of matters?”
“Allow me to tell you a story. About two years ago, I was doing a publicity tour for Go-Boy . . . Forever. Igby wasn’t there, as usual. Anyway, my parents and I are in a toy store in Minneapolis. It’s our last appearance on a three-week tour. Twenty-nine cities in three weeks. We’re all beat. I’ve been sitting there scribbling my name for nine hours. I’m hungry, thirsty, dead-tired, and my hand is cramping from signing so many autographs.”
“Is it really that bad? I mean, it’s just signing your name, right?”
“You try signing your name three thousand times. By the end of the day, I don’t even bother trying to actually write my name. It’s just a big C and a squiggle and a big M and a squiggle. I couldn’t sign my name even if I wanted to. So anyway, there I am in the toy store and there’s still a line out the door and halfway around the building. It’s almost nine o’clock at night and all they gave me for lunch was a bagel, followed by another bagel for dinner. No cream cheese, no locks, nothing. Not even a pickle. I love pickles. I always ask for extra pickles on my HulkaBurgers. I know I sound like a crybaby but I am not one of those people who can go all day without eating.”
“You ate,” said Parker. “You just said they gave you bagels.”
“They did give me bagels. But that’s not proper nutrition,” countered Colby.
“What’s wrong with bagels?”
“There’s nothing wrong with bagels,” Colby said quickly, losing his patience. “I like bagels as much as the next guy, but by themselves they are not a balanced meal. Whatever. The point is, I was trying to be a professional and I figured once I got back to my hotel room, I could order up some room service, eat while soaking in the big Jacuzzi tub, and then sleep for two days before I had to be back in L.A.”
“You had a Jacuzzi in your room?”
“Absolutely. I always make sure the place we stay has a Jacuzzi. There’s nothing better than basting your cares away in hot water. I’m thinking about opening a chain of Jacuzzi dealerships. Instead of test driving cars, you’ll test drive a Jacuzzi. And we’ll have a liquor license so everyone can have a pina colada while they try out their new spa.” Colby’s eyes wandered toward the ceiling, a smile on his face. He shook his head and looked down at his textbook. “Anyway, I remember the store manager stuffing fifties in my dad’s pocket to keep me there because he had so many people still waiting to meet me that he was afraid there would be a riot. And it would not have been the first time. You don’t want to mess with Minnesota soccer-moms, believe me. The moms of the world are the ones who buy my movies and toys and cereal. They are the front lines of morality, so it’s wise to keep them happy. Anyway, I finally said enough is enough and was ready to leave, despite the complaints from the manager. And from my dad.” Colby rolled his eyes.
“I bet they tried to offer you more bagels, too, huh?” said Parker.
“Exactly,” said Colby. “Now you’re starting to see where I’m coming from. I said, ‘No more bagels, bucko. I’m going to make like a baby and—”
“Head out?” Parker finished.
“Precisely,” said Colby. “But, just as I was about to get the heck out of Dodge, there’s this little kid wearing duck galoshes and a faded blue t-shirt with my face on it.”
Parker immediately thought of the faded blue t-shirt he had nearly worn to The Cloud Deck yesterday. He was more relieved than ever that he hadn’t worn it. He never again wanted to wear that faded blue t-shirt.
“The kid stood there,” Colby continued, “and in his hands he gently held the eight-by-ten glossy his mom had just bought for twenty-nine simoleans. By the looks of them, I could see it wasn’t easy to shell out that kind of money for my mug shot. He walked right up to me and said, ‘Hi, Mr. Max,’ – he even called me ‘Mister’ – ‘it’s an honor to meet you. My name is Bobby.’ And he held out the photo.”
Colby paused and looked off into space. It was clearly not for effect or to get into character. He seemed to be actually looking at something. Parker very nearly looked over his own shoulder, thinking perhaps Bubba had returned for more Astr-O’s. “What did you do? Did you sign it?”
“I looked him square in the eye and said, ‘Sorry, kid, but there’s no more plasma left in the generator. Better luck next time.’”
“Then what?”
“I left.”
“You left?” Parker could scarcely believe it.
“I left.” Colby’s gaze came back into focus. “I was tired and hungry and cranky and my hand really was killing me,” pleaded Colby. “And . . . I was a complete jackhole. A plasma-sucking, dead skunk-licking jackhole. As I was leaving, I happened to see the same boy. His pant legs were still bunched up around the tops of his little ducky galoshes. He was still holding my picture. He was looking at it and crying. His mom was bent over, talking to him. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I could tell she was trying to make him feel better. He just kept shaking his head side-to-side and looking at my picture as tears rolled down his grubby little cheeks. Then I lost sight of him. I don’t think my parents saw him crying. If they did, they never said anything.”
“So he never got your autograph?”
“Nope.”
“What about all those other people? The soccer moms?” Parker envisioned the crowd in Sky City Hobbies and Toys, standing in line for hours and hours, for nothing. He remembered how upset everyone had become when Colby’s dad announced their one p.m. departure.
“I abandoned them,” said Colby. “I let them down, though I didn’t realize it at the time. Or if I did, I didn’t care. My parents and I went back to the hotel. I sat in the Jacuzzi and ate my pizza and ran lines with my mom until midnight. Then I dragged them out of bed at four-thirty to be at the airport for the six a.m. flight back to Los Angeles so I could be on-set and camera-ready for a nine a.m. call. Les and the other executive producers had decided to make an unscheduled visit to the set that day and insisted on meeting with me and watching me work. That’s why I was awake until midnight running scenes with my mom. I wanted to be extra sharp. The executive producers are the ones who write the checks so it’s best to keep them happy along with the soccer moms.”
“Les who?”
“‘Les who?’ he says. Les Grossman. When I have an idea and want to know if it’s any good, I call Les Grossman. When I’m looking at a script and need a second opinion, I call Les Grossman. And when I want to party, or dance, I call Les Grossman.”
“What about the other day? Remember how upset everyone got when you said you were leaving?”
“That was a ruse,” replied Colby. “It was bogus. I always say that. But now, when everyone gets upset, I pretend to reconsider. Then I climb up on the steps in front of the Battle-suit mock-up” – Colby stood and climbed onto his chair – “and pretend I’m a real blowhard like Gilderoy Lockhart and I say something really sappy and dramatic like, ‘Since you’re all such loyal fans, I’m going to stay here until I’ve personally said hello to each and every one of you!’ Then everybody cheers and says how great I am and the studio executives who make money off me rub their hands together and think about how generous I am which in turn makes them feel generous so they give everyone a bonus and that makes them feel good and when they go home to their families or pets or whatever, they’re happy and feeling like all is right with the world.” Colby began to speak very quickly, “‘No, no, I want an official Red Ryder carbine-action, two hundred-shot, range-model air rifle.’” He smiled his best, hopeful smile. Then he said, “‘You’ll shoot your eye out kid.’ ‘Randy lie there like a slug. It was his only defense.’ ‘Fra-jee-lay. That must be Italian.’ ‘No, I think that says fragile.’ ‘Be . . . sure . . . to . . . drink . . .your . . . Ovaltine. Ovaltine? A crummy commercial? Son of a bitch.’” Colby shook his head like a boxer after a punch to the face, then resumed. “But it’s all fake. I genuinely do want to meet people and sign headshots or weird parts of their body, but everyone has their limit. Including me. When I reach my limit, I go into Fake Mode. Someday, you will too.”
“It’s all fake?” asked Parker. “That’s terrible.”
“That’s show business,” said Colby. He climbed off his chair and sat down. “It’s not show-fun or show-entertainment. It’s show-business. I hate to admit it, especially to myself, but the truth is that at the end of the day, it’s all about money. And this is not a bad thing. Besides gravity, money is what makes the world go around. And there’s a lot of money riding on my shoulders.”
Parker considered this. “Is that why you’re in here by yourself talking to a box of cereal?”
“That’s exactly why I’m in here by myself talking to a box of cereal. If you were being paid millions of dollars to say ‘Take it to the max,’ wouldn’t you talk to a box of cereal?”
Parker had to admit he’d never looked at it quite that way. “Yeah. I reckon I would.”
“You reckon?”
“My mom’s Midwest slang. She was from Topeka.”
“Was?” asked Colby. “Past tense?”
“Yeah. She’s dead.” Parker reeled inside. The bluntness of his own words shocked him. They were words spoken by someone he didn’t even know. “She was killed in The Attack. All those Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, unloading with bullets and rockets and missiles. I was in the arcade when it happened, playing hooky from school because it was my birthday.”
“The Attack happened on your birthday?” Colby asked.
Parker nodded. “Three years ago yesterday.”
“God, that sucks.” Colby looked down, toward his text book. “We were out of the country during the attack. But we lost our place on Central Park West, right by the reservoir. My bedroom had a great view.”
Parker was suddenly furious. “I lost my mom. Your stupid apartment being blown up is nothing compared to my mom being murdered.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Colby. “You’re absolutely right. Buildings can be rebuilt and new apartments can be found. But mothers. . . .” Colby stopped and swallowed hard. “Mothers are precious and irreplaceable. I’m sorry about your mom.”
Parker didn’t know what to say. In the face of Colby’s acknowledgment, he felt childish and ashamed of his haughtiness. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
“How did your dad take it?”
Parker studied Colby. Colby seemed unfazed by the scrutiny. “Crummy. We moved out of Manhattan right away. My dad kept all of my mom’s stuff, though. Old jewelry. Empty perfume bottles. Her toothbrush. He kept their bed, which he now sleeps in alone.”
“How did he treat you?”
“He stopped talking to me. If he was in a room doing something, he would leave right after I came in. We tiptoed around each other for about three months. Finally, I was sitting in the kitchen one morning and was half way through my second bowl of Astr-O’s when he looked up from his copy of The American and said, ‘You remind me so much of your mother.’ He threw the paper on the floor and walked out. I think I heard him crying. Three days later he showed up at my school and pulled me out of class. He took me to the Sky City HulkaBurger and told me he’d joined the Special Forces and was going off to fight the bastards responsible for my mom’s death. He said Mrs. Black had agreed to look after me, so I should be a good boy and listen to her like I did him. Then he took me back to school. Before he sent me back to class he said, ‘Son, some day, you’ll understand.’”
“John Fogarty eat your heart out,” said Colby.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Continue.”
“He shook my hand, turned, and walked away. I stood there like a complete idiot even after he was gone. I wanted to run after him and beg him not to go, beg him to take me with him. But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Eventually, Mrs. Figgis dragged me back to my desk. When I got home from school, some of his stuff was gone. He left me the keys to the apartment and a bunch of money and a note that said, ‘Do what they ask of you. And don’t cry. Dad.’ I’ve only seen him a few times since.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Colby.
“About two-and-a-half years.”
“He doesn’t come home regularly to visit?”
“No.”
“Not even for special occasions like holidays or your birthday?”
“No. He almost always calls me, though. Even though it’s usually the day after Christmas or the day after my birthday. He was supposed to be home yesterday, on leave for two weeks. He was going to take me to Sky City Hobbies and Toys to meet you and get your autograph. But some military guys showed up that morning and told me he was missing in action.”
“God, that sucks,” said Colby. “Yesterday was your birthday, right?”
Parker nodded.
“For what it’s worth, happy birthday,” said Colby.
“Thanks.”
“No wonder you looked so bummed out. That’s why I let you climb up into the Battle-suit. Then before I could make my announcement that I was going to stay and keep signing autographs, those morons in the black suits rushed in. I can’t believe they grabbed you instead of me. I can’t believe they lost my picture.”
“I was the one standing inside the Battle-suit. It was a simple mistake.”
“Then your idiot friends insisted on following you.”
“You didn’t have to go with my idiot friends.” Parker was suddenly angry again.
“Look, I’m not trying to insult them or you,” said Colby, “it’s just that I’m risking an awful lot by agreeing to this hare-brained scheme.”
“You’re not risking any more than the rest of us.”
“I most certainly am. I’m risking my life.”
“We’re all risking our lives.”
“But I make a lot more money than any of you.”
“Well, then,” Parker rose from the table, “I guess I’ll leave you alone to practice. Have fun talking to your box of cereal.” He marched to the nearby doors. Just before he left he turned back and said, “By the way, Astr-O’s taste like dog food.” This wasn’t true but it was the first thing which came to mind.
“Then I wouldn’t get too close to Bubba if I were you,” Colby said seriously, looking over his shoulder. “He ate the whole box. He’s going to need a flea bath, I reckon.” Colby grinned. “‘You’ll make a fine little helper. What’s your name?’ ‘Charles Demar.’ ‘Shut up, geek.’ ‘You certainly get my vote for cutest couple. Better shave her a little closer before you kiss her goodnight, though.’” Colby began to laugh, first a high-pitched giggle, then outright cackling laughter.
Parker stood and watched. He couldn’t tell if Colby laughed because he was acting or because he’d said something funny.
Gradually Colby composed himself. “You can’t tell if I’m acting or if I’m really laughing, can you? Told you I was a good actor. Don’t worry, Parker. When the fires of fame get too hot for you, just let me know and I’ll take over as Flight Leader of The Go-Kids. Even General Ramsey knows you’re not cut out for it.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to review this chapter on Battle-suit anatomy. You might want to read the chapter on the anatomy of a Flight Leader. See you in the morning. I don’t want to run laps or do push-ups because of you so please be on time.” Colby turned in his chair and focused his attention on the textbook in front of him.
“Take it to the max!” declared the cereal box on the table.
“I always do,” said Colby.
Parker searched for a comeback. He couldn’t think of anything.
After an angry, lonely moment, he turned and left the Mess Hall.
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